Kloked Out
by Doktor Girlfriend
Summary: Being a bodyguard has its perks.


Title: Kloked Out  
Author: Doktor Girlfriend  
Cast: Number 666 ("Black Betty"/Birget), Charles, mentions of Dethklok and other Gears  
Rating: PG-13 (a few F-bombs and brief reference to copulating with an eye socket)  
Warnings: I guess there's no way I can get around the hetero implications in this one, no matter how one-sided. I'm sorry if… No, y'know what? Fuck that noise. This shit is funny.  
Summary: Being a bodyguard has its perks.  
Disclaimer: I do not own _Metalocalypse_. Number 666 is mine, Number Three is the property of The Magic Rat, and Number 355 belongs to Tracy. None may be used without permission.  
Notes: I needed a bit of practice writing in Betty's voice for more than 200 words. And this seemed like a good idea at the time. XD Many thanks to Feral Toki for the beta, and to The Magic Rat and Tracy for the use of their Gears and their assurances that it didn't suck. 3

**Kloked Out**

**By Doktor Girlfriend**

Being part of the personal guard had its perks. For one, you got the good hotel rooms, close to the band, rather than having to sleep in the cramped employee quarters on the Dethbus. And that meant access to the hotel's pools and hot tubs when your shift was over. And when the Bossman was feeling especially generous, he allowed off-duty abuse of room service and mini bars. And tonight the Bossman was feeling very generous.

Any other time, Betty would have eagerly taken full advantage of every little kindness the Boss threw her way, but tonight she was too exhausted to even binge on tiny bottles of liquor. The day had been an eventful one. It was hardly news to Number 666 that her employer was an important man. As his bodyguard, it was her business to keep up-to-date with the ever expanding list of sharks circling Charles Foster Ofdensen: people who sought to gain influence over him, others who schemed to take over his position, and some who just plain wanted him dead. That part of the list was becoming especially long of late.

But dealings such as those always happened behind the scenes, in the shadows and the boardrooms (and occasionally on hover bikes). It was unheard of for an attempt on the CFO's life to be made in public, much less by a random nutjob or deluded fan. The manager of Dethklok had a remarkable talent for making himself invisible in broad daylight, allowing the fame and glory of his clientele to eclipse his small, unassuming presence. Rarely was he the target of the Dethklok fandom's murderous ire or violent devotion. And yet just this evening, Number 666 had found herself flattening the little man to the pavement while some Goddamned loony toon unloaded a gun in his general direction.

Fortunately, the loon proved a laughably lousy shot, only managing to graze a couple of the other guards, who were much more precise in their own aim. Betty had been closest to the Boss at the time and was thus the designated shield. Not that she was at all inclined to complain about being paid to occasionally tackle an attractive man to the ground and press her chest into his face.

She loved her work.

She took care not to love it too much at that moment, remaining poised over her employer only until she was given the signal that it was safe and helping him to his feet. By then her fellow Gears had moved beyond subduing the gunman to protecting him from being ripped apart by over half the members of Dethklok. He couldn't very well be questioned regarding his possible connections to any shadowy Illuminati if his head was separated from his shoulders, after all. It took five of the larger Klokateers to restrain a snarling Nathan and shrieking Toki, though Pickles was allowed to kick the would-be assassin's limp body for a short time.

It was just about that time that the crowd of sticky mosh survivors and mic-toting press monkeys that had gathered to crow and paw as Dethklok made their exit shook off their shock and surged forward with renewed ardor. Number Three slung Pickles over his shoulder, barking for two of his underlings to take the gunman away to… _talk_, yes, that was surely it. Number 666 and the rest of the crew quickly herded the remaining band members and their manager the few short yards to the safety of the Dethbus before they could be swallowed by the crush of amorous, unworthy bodies. The subsequent hours were then dedicated to keeping guard for other potential assailants and keeping at bay the hordes of cretins who simply could not process the sentence, "Stay the fuck behind the line or I will fuck you in the eye."

But now, all was quiet. No further assassinations were attempted, the crowd outside the hotel had finally dispersed (aside from a few shivering, hopeful groupies), and everyone was tucked warm and safe in their little beds (Dethklok seeming to decide that tonight probably wasn't a good night to keep Ofdensen up until 4:00 AM asking how to get to the pool or why the television channels were all out of order here and could he make the hotel fix them). And most importantly, Betty's shift was over and she could get some fucking sleep. The Bossman always gave his personal guard his spare keycard during these hotel stays; Betty had last been in possession of it, and passed it along to Number 355 when she went off the clock, wishing her luck in keeping the Boss from dying for the rest of the night. It wasn't her job again until after breakfast.

She stumbled down the hall in exhaustion, slumping against the wall when she reached the door to her room. Damn. She must be getting old. After 1:00 AM and she wasn't drunk or fucking, she was going to bed to _sleep_. That was just sad. Ah, well, maybe she'd earned the right to be pathetic for one night. She'd put in a hard day's work, and now a little card slot was all that separated her from glorious rest. Maybe she'd have the Bruce Campbell dream again…

Her eyes narrowed at the tiny red light that flashed above the slot. She removed the card and slid it back in, grinding her teeth as the light appeared again. Okay, make that a tiny card slot with an attitude standing between her and hosing down waves of the undead with a shirtless man with a chainsaw for an arm. Additional attempts produced the same results, and she growled in annoyance as she squinted at the card, comparing it to the number on the door. Oh, that was just brilliant. She had the wrong room again. During the last hotel stay of the tour, she had not only the wrong room number but the wrong floor as well, and ended up kicking down the door to the great displeasure of a nice, young tourist couple and a five-year-old whose personal perception of the boogeyman would be forever cemented as the image of a raving, tattooed young woman in combat boots.

Betty never claimed to be the sharpest axe in the armory. But at least she was only one room off this time. A pretty little green light greeted her at the next door down, and she beamed as she sailed into the dark room, gratefully flopping face-down on the bed, not bothering to remove her boots and holster. She nuzzled a pillow affectionately, a mere second from unconsciousness when she felt a shift in the bed beside her.

Wide awake now and fueled by a burst of instinct and adrenaline, Betty yanked her gun from her hip, grinning in sadistic satisfaction as she felt the barrel press against the bridge of a nose, her finger curling against the trigger…

And then her eyes crossed, staring at the business end of another gun aimed right between them. They slowly focused as they traveled up the barrel then flicked upward to meet a second pair, also beginning to focus through the haze of drowsiness and adrenaline. They blinked once.

"…Birget?"

Hey, she knew that voice! …Oh, crap.

"Hey, Boss…"

Another blink in the dark. "…You are in my bed."

Well, no shit, even she'd figured that out by now.

Figuring out the how took a little bit longer, but she thought fastest with a gun to her head. Obviously she'd given 355 the wrong keycard; an honest mistake if you were stupid. Now all that was needed was to impart this information to the Boss. Or apologize. Or simply slide out of the bed and leave. All excellent options.

All of which her brain promptly rejected in favor of: "And I almost shot you."

…Oh, she was fired.

The gun pressed against her skull was lowered, but before Betty could sag in relief, hands reached out, seemingly for her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, determined to think of kicking ass and chewing bubblegum during a zombie apocalypse as her last breath was choked from her lungs. But instead she felt herself hoisted off the bed, followed by a short period of jarring disequilibrium while whatever was hoisting her struggled to keep doing so as it sought solid ground.

Only when things appeared to have leveled off did Betty dare to open her eyes. The Boss was carrying her; that much she was able to discern fairly quickly. Where and to what purpose remained a mystery, but she didn't feel quite bold enough to question it at the moment. Her arm dangled towards the ground, gun still secure in her fist, but she made no move to holster it or bring any attention to the fact that she still held the gun, acutely aware that the main (perhaps the only) reason she continued to draw breath at this moment was her earlier display of her continued willingness to take a bullet for the man holding her. She didn't fancy doing anything further to make him forget that.

Movement came to an abrupt stop, followed shortly by a clicking sound and a sudden bright light as Ofdensen opened the door to the hotel hallway. He seemed to give Betty a perfunctory moment to adjust her eyes to the light before he took one step out and deposited her unceremoniously on the floor.

Face-down once more, Betty remained a beat or two immobile before slowly rolling over, stretching as she propped her upper body with her hands. She cracked her neck to each side and back, bringing her head forward to shoot a sour look at the man stepping back behind a decisively closing door.

"It's only fair to let you know that when I tell this story later, it's gonna have a very different ending."


End file.
